


Closest to Hell

by Geonn



Category: Fallen London|Echo Bazaar
Genre: Caught, F/M, Fallen London, Masturbation, Naked Male Clothed Female, Older Woman/Younger Man, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geonn/pseuds/Geonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A suave and keen-eyed gentleman returns to his lodgings for the evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closest to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This was written based on my character in the online game _Fallen London_ , but if you're unfamiliar, it can be read as an original story. "1889. Three decades ago, London was stolen by bats and dragged deep into the earth by the Echo Bazaar..."

Late was a relative term in a city where the sun never rises or sets, but it felt late to him. He'd been up for at least eighteen hours but probably even more. Time passed queerly in the Singing Mandrake. His mind raced with problems; the gory work he had been commissioned to write, the Vake he was hunting, the romance with the artist's model. Well, he could forget that last one. Blasted girl had been stealing information from him the entire length of their acquaintance. He supposed it didn't matter. The fun they had in her lodgings was worth the cost of a few secrets. Still, no one liked to be played for a fool.

Bats swept overhead, their squeaks echoing off the stalactites of the city's new sky. He kept his head down and walked quickly through the streets to the home of the widow Talmadge. Lights were burning in the downstairs parlor, making the front of the house look like glowing eyes in a jack-o'-lantern. He could hear the piano, played with more zealous joy than actual talent, even as he ascended the steps and fished for his key. He was saved from emptying his pockets when the door swung open and he was confronted by his fellow lodger.

Tonight she wore a workman's suit, similar to his own, and her dark hair was hidden beneath a bowler that tilted rakishly over one eye. She touched the brim with one finger and nodded to him in passing with a mumbled, "Evenin', sir," before she brushed past him and continued on whatever urgent ambition called her out into the chill night. He held the door open for himself as he watched her turn south, either toward Mrs. Plenty's Carnival or - more worrying - Watchmaker's Hill. He didn't doubt she could handle herself if the need arose, but the roughs and heavies that frequented that area.

He knew his fellow boarder was plagued by nightmares; he had heard the cries from her room in the night ("The walls are wrong!"), and had once sat up talking with her to ease the burden. He was afraid he'd only succeeded in making his own nights darker, but if he'd helped her at all, he was grateful. He just wished there was more he could do. Maybe he could get her a pet... a nice goldfish might brighten her day.

He stepped inside and removed his overcoat. The music and hymn-singing ceased, an occurance which ironically made him want to lift his voice in praise to any random deity. Moments later, as he was beginning to ascend the stairs, Imogen Talmadge appeared at the doorway of the parlor.

"Oh. I heard the door, but I merely assumed I'd run off the dear Pixie. I was going to run out the door to apologize."

"She did leave," he said, "but her motives seemed nothing to do with your music." It took an effort to be magnanimous, but he managed somehow to add, "You don't have to stop on my account."

She smiled. "You're a sweet man. But I believe I'm sung out for the evening. Would you care for a drop of something to drink before you retire?"

"Certainly. I have a few bottles of Greyfields '82 upstairs. I'll just grab a bottle and be back down in a jiff." She nodded and went to the parlor to find a snack to go with their drink. 

He let himself into the room the widow Talmadge, perhaps as an act of goodwill to help ease her passage to Heaven, allowed him to keep at no charge. He wasn't certain, but he suspected the Pixie had the same arrangement. Mr. Talmadge was a stage magician who disappeared under mysterious circumstances in the most sincere meaning of the phrase. A puff of smoke, and seventy-five witnesses confirmed he had simply vanished off the face of the earth. Stranger things had happened, and in a city that became a neighbor to Hell when it was stolen by bats, people tended not to say the word 'impossible.'

His wine was stocked in a small cupboard beside his bed. There were shockingly few bottles left, but he was knew he could get a few more bottles on credit or by entertaining the masses in Veilgarden. He had quite a reputation down there, and a handful of actions would refill his personal wine cellar enough to keep him drunk through the week-end. 

On the way out of the room he stopped to check on the poor terrier Abelard. His pup was still lying lethargically in a nest of pillows and blankets between the dresser and the wall. He lifted his eyes rather than his head and regarded his master. He knelt and scratched the dog between the ears, which seemed to alleviate the poor animal's misery just a bit. He didn't know what the bohemians in Watchmaker's Hill had done to the poor thing, but he seemed to have a perpetual hangover.

"What about it, Abe? A little hair of the dog what bit ya?" He offered the wine bottle to the dog, who snorted and huffed out a breath. "On the wagon. Dog's smarter than most people I know." He gave Abelard another pat and left the room. He headed downstairs to where the widow Talmadge was slicing fat wedges of cheese to go with the crackers already set out.

"Quite a spread for a bedtime snack."

"If you're like the other young gentlemen who spend their time mucking about in Veilgarden, you'll have taken more drink than actual food. You need to have something in your belly or you'll wind up as puny as that poor dog o' yours."

He smiled and pulled out a chair. He sat and took a cracker as Ms Talmadge sat across from him and placed the cheese tray between them. He looked at the half-cracker pinched between his fingers and brushed the crumbs from his lips. "Sorry. Should I have waited to say grace before I started?"

"No need for that." 

There were two empty glasses on the table, so he uncorked the bottle and filled them with wine. "Eighty-two," she said. "A very nice vintage, if you don't mind a bit of mushroom aftertaste."

"Some people consider it a bonus," he said.

"Very right. Cheers."

They both drank, snacking on the cheese and crackers in silence. Ms Talmadge asked him about his adventures, since she rarely left the house for anything other than Church or prayer meetings. Usually Bible study was held in her own parlor, and it was during those nights he (and the Pixie, he had noticed) found reason to be elsewhere. Hymns were sung loudly and with enthusiasm, and there weren't enough pillows in all of Fallen London to block out the sound of them once the churchgoing ladies got going. Another tragedy from the demise of his romance with the artist's model; at least her lodgings had been quiet enough to get some rest.

He told her of the commission to write a story about Jack-of-Smiles, and she assured him he had talent enough for such an endeavor. Perhaps too much, he thought; he didn't tell her that the first manuscript was tossed into the fireplace for being too vile and despicable. She was a very good woman, and he didn't want her to think she was giving a room to someone capable of out-thinking a brutal killer.

Eventually the cheese was consumed and the plate of crackers was reduced to nothing more than crumbs. He bid her a goodnight and begged her to keep the remains of the bottle for herself. She thanked him and said that, with what was left and the amount of wine she tended to drink, it would last her until the turn of the century. He smiled and said, "Then perhaps we shall have another evening like this so I may assist you in draining the bottle. Goodnight, Ms Talmadge." He took her hand and lightly kissed the knuckles before turning to go upstairs.

She stopped him by saying his name, making it sound stately with a "mister" in front of it and everything, and he turned. She was holding the wine bottle in one hand, angled so she could examine the label as she spoke. "Those of us who are closest to Hell need to sing louder so that our praise may reach Heaven. We must sing loudly if we are to be heard... and forgiven." She finally met his eye again. "And I have been close to Hell since long before the infernal Echo Bazaar brought us down here."

He was stunned. "I'm certain that's untrue, Ms Talmadge."

She smiled. "Because I am such a kind and generous lady, yes?" She waved her hand dismissively. "Drops in the bucket against the weight of my sins. But don't concern yourself. I just wanted you to know why so many of your evenings have been disturbed by my carrying-on."

"Of course. Think nothing of it, madam. Good night."

Upstairs, he undressed and used the mirror over the dresser for new scrapes and contusions. He could be a dangerous fellow when necessary, but he was also watchful and could persuade his way out of the majority of dangerous situations. Still, anyone who spent any time in Spite or the rougher corners of Veilgarden could be certain to come out of it with fresh rainbows on their person. He lifted one arm and sniffed; he could do with another day before taking a bath. Being clean was all well and good, but there were certain corners of the city where the scent of soap would close doors faster than flashing a constable's badge. He'd taken a bath yesterday, and hadn't exerted himself overly much since, so he felt he was still good to go. He did wet a washcloth in the basin and ran it over his chest and under his arms, sliding it down his chest and giving his tackle a good scrub before placing the moist towel in the hamper.

Afterward he dimmed the lamp and lay on top of his bed, one foot on the floor and the other stretched out over the blankets. Abelard made a quiet noise of approval that the light had dimmed and he heard the terrier roll over onto his other side to sleep through his hangover. In the silence, he could hear the hollow clicking of Ms Talmadge's shoes on the hardwood floor below. He closed his eyes and pictured her passage through the house.

He wondered what sins she was so broken up about, what she could have possibly done that was so atrocious to require her to sing down the walls every night. Perhaps she had skipped Church one rainy Sunday morning and worried the Lord chose that day to take roll call. Or maybe she had harboured unchristian thoughts about her fellow worshippers. How scandalous, he thought as he smiled. Ms Talmadge was in the parlour now, perhaps seated in her wingback chair with the battered and beaten Bible on her lap as she looked up a favorite verse. The Good Book had been opened and closed and thumbed through so many times that it was about to fall apart.

What could weigh so heavily on the soul that she had to sing at the top of her voice and read a book into tatters? He knew she had served as her husband's lovely assistant. Perhaps she'd had a hand in his vanishing. No, she wouldn't have caused him harm and then spent the next twenty years mourning the man's memory. As far as he knew, she hadn't even taken a lover since the smoke cleared to reveal an empty stage where a man had just stood.

Perhaps that was it. Sooner or later, most sins boiled down to sex. The desire for the first touch, the urge to have it again, or the anger at having it taken away. Ms Talmadge was comely and slender, remnants of her time onstage no doubt, and the gray in her hair only served to make her more distinguished. When he'd first approached her after his daring escape, room and board had only been one measure of success. If she'd insisted on making him a kept man, asking him to share her bed to pay his way, he would have gladly agreed. In fact, he was a bit disappointed she hadn't taken that route.

His eyes opened and he considered that if he was ever to have a chance with the merry widow, tonight would be ideal. The Pixie wasn't in her rooms and, judging by the haste with which she'd left, wasn't due back any time soon. He and Ms Talmadge were in the large home all by their lonesomes, both romantically unattached, and they had just shared a lovely repast of wine and cheese. It was easy to draw the lines between that and seduction.

He imagined walking downstairs and into the parlour. The walls would be dancing with light from the fire and she would look up from her reading. She would see his intentions on his face and her smile of greeting would fade as the desire darkened her gaze. She would have just enough time to put aside the Bible as he pressed her into the back of the couch and covered her mouth with his.

He moved his hands to his waist, his fingers extended until they touched his cock. He lifted it out of the way, letting it rest over his fingers as he gently massaged his ball sack. His cock responded to his hands as if it was actually Ms Talmadge touching him. He pictured pulling her up off the couch, pressing himself against her to feel his hard cock disappear into the folds of her dress before laying her on the floor in front of the fire.

It was easy to picture the look of surprise and desire on her face. He imagined her wetting her lips as he knelt down, covering her body with his, her hands sliding around his neck to pull him down for another kiss. He imagined settling between her legs, tugging at the barrier of clothing between them. He could almost feel her tongue in his mouth and his cock swelled. He moved one hand from his balls and looped the fingers around the base, squeezing before he began to stroke up the shaft.

It wouldn't be like it was with the artist's model. That had been two young people scrambling for pleasure in a dark, small loft. With Ms Talmadge - Imogen - he would be romancing. Making love. He closed his fist around the head of his cock and twisted his wrist, spreading the pre-come over his palm before he continued stroking. In his mind, it was the moisture from Imogen's sex coating his erection, and he could see her bright blue eyes wide with anticipation as he braced both hands on the carpet under her arms and, with a quick thrust of his hips that he mimicked alone in his bed, sank inside of her. He tightened his fist and grunted; those were her muscles tightening around him, holding him, and he pushed against her to get ever deeper. 

He was a clever and inventive sort, and he could feel her gathered skirts forming a cushion against his stomach, could feel her thighs spread wide on either side of him, cradling his hips as he thrust into her. He could feel her fingernails raking his neck. He arched his back and remembered the sound of her saying his name in the kitchen earlier. He filtered it, turned the word into a gasp of pleasure, and he matched the gasp with one of his own as he whispered, "Imogen..." 

There was a note of longing in his voice, and his voice cracked weakly as he climaxed. He kept stroking the shaft, spreading his come from tip to base until the tension seeped from his body and he lay limply on the bed. He heard footsteps in the hall outside his room and froze, wondering when Ms Talmadge had come upstairs. Surely she hadn't heard his exclamations. There was a quiet knock on the door and then she softly said his name.

"Yes, Ms Talmadge?" He grabbed his sheets and bundled them over his lap as he sat up. The door opened and she poked her head inside, almost retreating when she saw his bare chest and the naked curve of his hip disappearing into the bundle of blankets.

"Oh! Well... I apologize. I simply wanted to wish you a good night."

"Thank you, Imogen." She met his eyes at the use of her Christian name. "Was that all?"

She hesitated at the door, her fingers tightening around the knob. She looked over her shoulder toward the Pixie's rooms, but he'd already told her that the other boarder was gone for the night. They were all alone in the big, quiet house and, if he had his druthers, he would see to it that it didn't remain silent for long. 

After what seemed like an endless hesitation, Ms Talmadge stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Blast you," but she said it with a greedy smile. "But this close to Hell, what's one more sin on my ledger?" 

She crossed the room and lifted her skirts to climb onto the bed. As she joined him, he saw a flash of scarlet stockings and had a sudden insight into what manner of sins she was absolving herself for. Apparently Mr Talmadge had gone to Mr Wine to find a lovely assistant. Ms Talmadge lowered him to the mattress and covered his body with her own. He felt a moment of guilt as her hand slid under the blanket and found his slick cock, but he let it drift away without concern.

If he had to listen to her boisterous caterwauling, the least she could do was let him enjoy one of the sins she was using the music to absolve. He had an inkling she would have much more reason to sing before the morning came.


End file.
